"Good evening," he said in a heavy, uncompromising way. He looked enormous, framed there by the open gate, the white road behind him like a sheet. He looked very blue--a great towering shadow against the sunlight. It was very clear that he _knew_ he was a policeman and could think of nothing else. He was dressed up for the part, and received many shillings a week from a radculgovunment to look like that. It would have been a dereliction of duty to forget it. He was stuffed with duty. His brass buttons shone. "Good _evening_," he repeated, as no one spoke. "_Good_ evening," replied Uncle Felix calmly. The Policeman accentuated the word "evening," but Uncle Felix emphasised the adjective "good." From the very beginning the two men disagreed. "This is private property, very private indeed. We are having tea, in fact, privately, upon our own land." "No property is private," returned the Policeman, "and to the Law no thing nor person either." For a moment the children felt afraid. It seemed incredible that Uncle Felix could be arrested, and yet things had an appearance of it. "Kindly close the gate so that we cannot be overheard," he said firmly, "and then be good enough to state your business here." He did not offer him a seat; he did not suggest a cup of tea; he spoke like a brave man who expected danger but was prepared to meet it. The Policeman stepped back and closed the gate. He then stepped forward again a little nearer than before. From a pocket, hitherto invisible inside his belt, he drew forth a crumpled notebook and a stub of pencil. He was very dignified and very grave. He took a deep breath, held the paper and pencil ready to use, expanded his chest till it resembled a toy balloon in the Park, and said: "I am looking for a man." He paused, then added: "Have you seen a man about?" "About what?" asked Uncle Felix innocently. "About fifty or thereabouts," replied the other. "Disguised in rags and a wig of hair and a false beard." "What has he done?" It was like a game of chess, both opponents well matched. Uncle Felix was too big to be caught napping by clever questions that hid traps. The children felt the danger in the air, and watched their uncle with quivering admiration. Only their uncle stood alone, whereas behind the Policeman stretched a line of other policemen that reached to London and was in touch with the Government itself. "What has he done?" repeated their champion. "He's disappeared," came the deep-voiced answer. "There's no crime in that," was the comment, given flatly. "But he's disappeared with"--the Policeman consulted his notebook a moment--"a chicken and a roll of butter what don't belong to him--" "Roll _and_ butter, did you say?" "No, sir, roll _of_ butter was what I said." He spoke respectfully, but was grave and terrible. "He is a thief." "A thief!" "He lives nowhere and has no home. You see, sir, duty is duty, and we're expected to run in people who live nowhere and have no homes."